Peeping Tom

The tides of light and brine are shadows

of the moon, Tom, sailor of sights or dull crow

harassed by headlights and sparrows-

his shadow billows breathlessly on an alley wall,

the filthy sea becalmed, his yellow beak

into the night air peaked to see someone

smile to someone or undress. Queer Street

climbs skyward like an ivory tower,

the houses nod night-hooded or fire-eyed,

the starved greyhound curls asleep

in its ribs, and Harlequin, in black

skullcap and polka-dot pajamas pauses

before each queer step to hear: ooh,

has he disturbed, anywhere, a cruel squeak

or murmur? To watch is human, to see

divine, and if explodes any amber in there

the heart opens like an eye on blue water,

the moon a flagship to its cold sin.

Tom's heart is grimed and spineless,

its shell is limestone or ringed

like a section of tree. It hopes for queer

complicity and yet goes forth to get scolded;

it acquiesces as if deaf wood or blind,

and when the truth is squeezed for its juice

it winces like an oyster: that was no

Tupperware party where he heard you giggle,

that was The Eagle Motel, and that was no cousin

or girlfriend, honey, but an old intrigue

come back to town, swept up by the tide,

a leg that squirts salt water and leaves

a hole in the sand, another romantic

who thinks meaning's made of seaweed sheets,

rock spray, white stars, and a stray clam.